


Psmith and Not-Smith

by lirin



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:18:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cricket-match, dinner, and a bit of a row...what more could one want in life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psmith and Not-Smith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnorkackCatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnorkackCatcher/gifts).



It was a June morning in Cambridge, and two men were walking down King Street. A casual observer passing by might have assumed from their bearing that they were students at the University stopping for a drink after a day full of studying, and he would have been partially correct. Yes, our nameless inquisitor would be right in guessing that these two men were University students, and that they were stopping for a drink was only too obvious from the door at which they were turning in; but as it happens, not a crumb of studying was to be found in their day’s activities. For that day had been the long-awaited cricket match against Oxford, and the shorter of the two men whose libations have fallen under such observation was the noted M. Jackson, champion batsman for the Cambridge first eleven. M. Jackson’s reason for absence from classes and study was therefore obvious, but what of the other? The name of R. Psmith did not appear on the rolls of either team, and yet he, too, had been absent from all academic pursuits that day.

If, unlike our mysterious pedestrian, we were to follow Psmith and Mike into the small restaurant, we might deduce from their conversation that Psmith had willfully abandoned research into several points of law in order to observe the day’s cricket game.

“If it is true that corruptissima republica plurimae leges *,” Psmith was saying, “then one must begin to fear for our own country, for its laws are many and the studies required are long. However, I did my part by absenting myself from lecture today for the sake of cricket. The cry goes out, ‘Psmith is not overwhelmed by the laws. They are not overmany; therefore our country is not corrupt.’ Wilkinson accompanied me. I do not know whether he watched cricket solely for the purpose of defending England from accusations of corruption, or whether more mundane aspirations inspired him.

“You know I always try to think well of my fellow man,” Psmith continued, “but Wilkinson makes it dashed hard, walking about in that purple overcoat. Overcoats were not meant to be purple any more than waistcoats were meant to be orange. But even that I could countenance with a clear spirit and a light heart, were it not for his atrocious opinions when it comes to cricket. He insisted to me that you were l.b.w. shortly before your half century, and was commenting on the astigmatism that must therefore be present in the umpires. How he can postulate vision troubles in others when he himself is standing there in that overcoat, I cannot think. The only thing more egregious than the color of his overcoat is his conceptualization of linearity, for that ball was obviously not in line with your wicket.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mike. “It was a closer shave than I would have liked, though.”

“And yet you won through, Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith. “The risks of the moment are scarcely to be considered in light of the glories which come after. Consider Comrade Brown, in yon corner, or at the table near us Comrade—yes, I think we shall even appellate him Smith. He has an honest, Smithy sort of look to him. Do Comrade Brown and Comrade Smith think of the risks they took earlier in the day in reaching this place of refuge? Or do they simply glory in the fact that they are here, and respite is upon them?” He reached for his glass, but was forestalled by a hand striking him upon the shoulder.

“’ey, you!” the owner of the hand said.

“Yes?” said Psmith, affixing his monocle to his eye and gazing placidly at the newcomer. It was the man to whom he had so recently applied the mellifluous title of Smith.

“Who do you think you are, calling me ‘Smith’? That’s my wife’s parents’ name, that is, and I don’t care to go associating with them, now do I?” He seized Psmith by the placket of his shirt and pulled him out of his chair despite the latter’s polite protestations.

“Now wait a second here,” said Mike. “ ‘Smith’ is a good name. Just because you personally have something against somebody by that name doesn’t mean you have to go generalizing—”

“I’ll generalize whenever and wherever I want to,” said their interlocutor, whose name remained unknown as it apparently was not “Smith”. Not-Smith still refused to release his hold upon the person of Psmith-with-a-P, and had further proceeded to suspending him over the table, which held several empty glasses and a copy of the _Cambridge Daily News_. This position was apparently causing Psmith some distress, for he suddenly seized one of the glasses and cracked it upon the other’s head. This achieved its intended result of releasing not-Smith’s hold on Psmith’s shirt, but we can assume that the secondary result—that of sending Psmith careening into the table, where he knocked the other glasses to the floor and then landed upon them—was not an outcome that Psmith had desired or even, perhaps, considered at all.

“’ere, now!” came a cry from the proprietor of the establishment, but that worthy stood all the way across the room, with some dozen tables and more chairs blocking his way to the altercation. Several bystanders, friends of not-Smith from the look of it, were not so impeded. They approached as one rushing mass. It was a time for action. Mike reached down to the heap on the ground, seized Psmith with his one hand and a broken mug with the other, and with these secured, proceeded away from the numerous partisans of not-Smith. There was a staircase in the corner of the room; this all parties approached with alacrity.

As Mike and Psmith climbed the staircase, several blows to their persons were attempted, but Mike forestalled all further indignities by means of several swift blows with the mug, of which he still retained hold. At the top of the stairs, they ran into the first room that presented itself, and slammed the door against the ringing cries of “Who do they think they are?” and “Imagine! Callin’ ‘im Smith! The nerve!”

“What now?” inquired Mike, pushing a wooden chest against the door and piling chairs on top of it.

Psmith crossed to the window and looked out. They were directly above the awning that covered the door by which they had originally entered the restaurant. As he contemplated the scene, the door edged open a crack. Mike shoved another chest in front of it.

“Hurry up!” said Mike. “Think of something!”

Psmith opened the window. “It seems to me, Comrade Jackson, that this is a time to choose the Leap of Faith over the Heroic Last Stand.”

Mike stared at him, mouth agape. “You don’t mean to jump out the window!”

“Where is your Sherlock Holmes spirit?” Psmith asked. “It is impossible for us to remain in here when our friend Comrade—who knows what name he prefers, since he so disdains the name of Smith? We shall call him Comrade Aliquis for the nonce. To return to my subject: it is impossible for us to remain here with Comrade Aliquis and friends, so we eliminate that possibility. The only possibility that then remains is for us to depart the room. As the stairs are not available to us, that leaves the window, which fortunately for us, overlooks a broad and sturdy awning.”

“That’s all right then,” said Mike, reassured by this paean to the awning.

Psmith matched his actions to his words and slid swiftly out the window, followed by Mike. As they bounced off the awning and slid down into the street, there came a roar from not-Smith, who had burst into the room too late to further defend his honor. “The name’s Wibblehauser!” they heard him exclaim as he disappeared from their ken.

Psmith dusted himself off and led the way down the street. “If only he would have said sooner,” he lamented. “Comrade Wibblehauser has a certain ring to it. Nothing to compare with Smith, even without a P, but certainly not worth disturbing our dinner to such an extent.”

“Speaking of dinner,” said Mike, “we still haven’t had any.” He glanced at the restaurant they had so recently vacated, where pro-Wibblehauserians were beginning to pour out the door. “On second thought, perhaps we had better get out of sight first.”

Psmith glanced back down the street at the rapidly approaching pro-Wibblehauserian faction, and agreed. “Their numbers are too great for us, Comrade Jackson. Let us run.”

They ran.


End file.
